


The Hunt for Henry Morgan

by candidlydishonest



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Historical (kinda), Immortality, Mystery, Threat of secret reveal, being sneaky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-17 17:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12370113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candidlydishonest/pseuds/candidlydishonest
Summary: Henry Morgan is tired. Tired of his immortality, tired of watching the world move on without him. When a homicide case proves to be more dangerous than he bargained for, Henry begins to wonder whether he hasn't held on tight enough to those closest to him.





	1. Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a deeper exploration of Henry Morgan in general ... I suppose I'll just sit back and see where this leads.  
> I don't own 'Forever' :)

Friday. He liked Fridays. He liked to watch the sunset wearily linger on the horizon, a yawning expanse of stars at its heels. He liked watching haggard businesspeople stagger home from work, world-weary but with the glimmer of hope in their eyes. He could see their hunger for nightfall.  
Endings. Friday was a bookend for the week. It was the only day that brought a sense of finality and relief.

‘It’s a great place,’ Abe was saying, 'and it’s only a few blocks from here. James Reid says the sandwiches are to die for.’  
Henry started, turning from the window.  
Abe caught his father’s eye and sighed. ‘Henry? Did you catch any of that?’  
Henry hesitated. ‘I’m sorry … I got a little distracted.’ He strode across the room and pulled out a dusty leather armchair, seating himself with exaggerated decorum. ‘I’m listening now.’  
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ Abe scoffed, shaking his head. Only his gentle smile betrayed him.

Henry fought the urge to apologise; he knew Abe hated apologies. Inwardly, the doctor berated himself for being so careless. Though each minute seemed to blur into obscurity for him, each second spent was a second lost for Abraham. His son wasn’t getting any younger. Henry tilted his head, watching the subtle light of the room play on his son’s face. The darker streaks of Abe’s hair were now peppered silver, and the mapped crevices on his worn face were deeper than ever before.

‘I don’t know anyone by the name of James Reid,’ Henry began softly. ‘Is he a new friend of yours?’  
‘Excellent deduction,’ Abe replied, flashing Henry an indecipherable grin. ‘We fought to the death over a chessboard last week. We’re members of the same chess club.’  
‘Since when were you in a chess club?’

Abe let out a full, throaty laugh. ‘I’m trying to hone my skills for the next time we play. I still haven’t recovered from our last game.’ He threw up his hands in dismissal. ‘Anyway – James mentioned a new cafe a few blocks from here and I promised I’d give it a shot. If I don’t live up to my promises, I’ll get a bad reputation around these parts.’  
Henry raised an eyebrow. 

Abe returned his father’s look with incredulity. ‘What?’  
‘You have somewhat of a … reputation already.’  
Abe conceded with a slow nod. ‘I am known to be incredibly charming, if that’s what you mean.’  
‘Charming?’  
‘And handsome. Oh – and don’t forget witty. I have an image to maintain, you know.’

Henry chuckled. Exhaling, he lifted a hand to his temple and allowed him to sink in a little deeper into the chair. In these brief moments, he could close his eyes and envision himself back home: with a younger Abraham, just as lively, and Abigail beaming at his side. For Henry, remembering left an almost bittersweet aftertaste on the tip of his tongue. The images he could conjure were as bright and vivid as the day they happened; they’d often evoke a warmth he thought he’d lost long ago. But it only took a number of seconds for this feeling to fade as quickly as it had come.

Why was it that whenever he awoke from these beautiful dreams, the world was drained of colour? Only Abe remained as his sole source of comfort; his last shard of light. Henry liked to think he saw a glimmer of that same light in the people he worked with – Jo especially – but he knew that in time, he’d grow to regret thinking such things. 

Nothing lasts. Only Henry Morgan.

When Henry opened his eyes, Abe’s gaze had softened, his strong, dark eyebrows falling into a half-frown. It was the he wore when he was worried – worried about Henry. It was an expression the doctor could read in an instant, and to his dismay, it had become more frequent over the past few years. 

Before Abe could open his mouth, Henry stopped him with a raised hand. ‘I’m sorry. We finally have time to sit down and talk and I’m already neglecting you.’  
‘You’re not neglecting me.’  
‘I find that hard to believe.’  
‘No – listen,’ Abe said seriously, ‘I’m the one who’s not paying attention. Sometimes I forget that all of this change … it drains you. You can talk to me. You know that, don’t you?’

Henry paused. He stood, brushing off the dust from his coat, slipping on the placid, vaguely indifferent mask he was so used to wearing. When he glanced at Abe, however, the facade melted a little.  
‘I’m tired,’ Henry said simply. The words seemed to weigh a ton, reluctant to leave his lips. Henry shrugged, as if attempting to bat away his shame. ‘I-I’m just so tired now. I don't know why. I see time go by - I see _you_ suffer under it. There are times when I wish …’ Trailing away, he let the rest remain unspoken. 

They both knew.

'I'm sorry, Pops,' Abe said hoarsely.  
Henry shook his head vigorously, sliding an arm over his son's shoulder and drawing him close. He stroked Abe's hair the way he used to. Both men said nothing. Perhaps it was easier this way, Henry thought. Neither one could see the other cry.


	2. Aria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jo is dragged into a late-night case. Henry is reminded of something long, long ago ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting!

The homely hum of a dishwasher swelled in the silence. It was a sound that sent a sliver of a chill down Jo’s spine. It was a natural, ordinary sound. An alien noise in a room that reeked of death. 

‘Were you busy, Mike?’  
She knew he had been. It was a question of pure self-satisfaction – just to know she wasn’t the only one wishing she were someplace else.

Hanson laughed scornfully. ‘I was in the middle of having a dinner out with the wife and kids. I’m all for doing my job, but Friday night’s almost my limit.’  
‘Well, here’s to making New York a safer place,’ Jo sighed. She looked down to check her watch, only to quickly avert her gaze. She decided it was better not knowing. 

Jo scanned the room. It was expensive. Intricate. Stale. Wallpaper spiralled to meet a flawless, cream carpet. The entire area was bathed in a strange, artificial light that washed the room in a sickly, yellowish-white. A luxurious kitchen sprawled across almost half of the living room, daringly dark, flaunting its worth. Ivory gauze curtains spilled onto the floor, mildly obscuring a view Jo knew was first-rate. She could see lights scattered like stars against the inky backdrop of the night. Even now, the city was alive. A life had been taken, and still the world continued to glow and spin.

‘Care to join me?’ Hanson asked, inclining his head towards a doorway Jo assumed led to the victim’s room.  
_Right_. _The case_. She followed him in.

Jo had seen dead bodies before. Corpses used to fringe her nightmares, back when she was younger and more inexperienced. She was prepared for death. She knew it well. But as Hanson peeled away the sheet that obscured the body, something about it made Jo’s breath hitch.

 _She’s so young_ , she thought desperately. _So, so young_.  
A girl of around nineteen lay rigid on the floor. Her glistening eyes looked almost milky against her waxen, illuminated profile. Tendrils of thick, blonde hair lay cobwebbed on the carpet and laced across her cheeks like a broken veil.

‘Her name’s Elizabeth Baker,’ Hanson said. ‘Cyanide poisoning. Suicide. The staff said she was acting evasive and stayed in her room from five o’clock onwards.’  
‘You think this is suicide?’ Jo asked, her eyes still fixed on the girl. ‘She seemed pretty well off. Shouldn’t a girl this age be in college?’  
‘I’d think so, too. All I know is that it turns out Baker was steeped in debt. And since the door was locked from the inside and there are no signs of a struggle, nobody left or entered this room.’  
‘Don’t the staff have access?’  
Hanson itched the nape of his neck, keen to move on. ‘It’s suicide, Jo. Leave it be. We’ll still have to clear up a few things, but I can safely say that—’

‘I’ll have to disagree with you there, Detective Hanson.’ The crisp, staccato voice of Henry Morgan cut through the room like a whetted knife. ‘I know you’re tired, but we have to do this properly.’  
Hanson, as usual, failed to disguise his exasperation, turning to face the medical examiner with a flat look. ‘I was wondering when you’d show up.’ 

‘Evening, Henry,’ Jo said chirpily. Henry improvised a bow in greeting. She noticed he was paler than usual. His habitually sharp, shining eyes had lost their lustre and his movements seemed weary. _Bad time?_ Jo felt like saying, but she thought better of it. 

‘Most suicide victims don’t pour themselves something without drinking it,’ Henry continued, gesturing to a full glass of water at the bedside table. ‘It looks like Elizabeth Baker took pills before bed.’  
‘It’s a flimsy basis for an argument,’ Hanson replied, yet Jo could tell he was doubtful of himself. 

‘Then let’s see what Miss Baker can tell us.’ Henry crouched. His eyes raked over the body fleetingly before flicking back to Hanson. ‘Clean teeth, recent haircut … a few recent signs of sleep deprivation, yet nothing too serious. She’d taken great pains with her appearance.’ He surveyed the girl once again. A transient shadow descended over his countenance. ‘It isn’t suicide.’ 

Jo noticed the way he gently pulled the sheet back over Baker's body.  
She believed him. 

‘Is it any surprise that a victim of suicide suffered from sleep deprivation?’ said Hanson bleakly, oblivious to the shift in the doctor’s mood.  
Henry’s brow cleared as his lips twitched. ‘Lack of sleep can be for several reasons. Did the girl live alone, Jo?’  
‘Seems like it,’ Jo said, nodding. Then, catching on, she added, ‘You think she met someone last night?’  
‘She was dressed for the occasion,’ Henry said. Suddenly, he frowned.

'The door was locked from the inside,' Hanson protested weakly. 'Nobody came in - don't you see?'  
Henry, ignoring him, reached under the low-set bed and began to feel for something. Hanson and Jo exchanged a bemused look. Henry seemed to find what he was looking for: he grinned and produced a small, folded note.  
Hanson squinted at the paper in Henry’s hand. ‘What does it say?’  
‘You can do the honours, Detective Martinez,’ Henry said, handing it to Jo.

‘Questa o quella,’ Jo read. ‘Sounds like Italian.’  
‘Excellent guess,’ Henry answered brightly. ‘It translates to “this woman or that” – the title of the opening aria in “Rigoletto” sung by a womanising duke. The opera itself premiered in Venice, 1851.’ That familiar, wistful look crossed the man’s face like a passing haze. ‘It was a magical performance. A roaring success.’  
‘So, what do you think it means?’  
‘I can only guess.’ Henry gave her a quiet smile, taking back the note. He held it up to the light thoughtfully, observing how the veins of the paper shifted as he moved it. 

Jo’s eyelids felt heavy and her vision blurred from lack of sleep. Still, she forced herself to ask what had been waiting expectantly on her lips.‘How did you know where to find it, Henry? How did you know where the note was?’  
Henry didn’t reply. The grave set of his mouth had softened. He looked younger, happier. 

Something was bothering him. Something beyond this case. Jo had known Henry Morgan long enough to know his moods like the back of her hand. He was like Atlas; carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders – some unseen, great burden. And for one of the best detectives in the field, she couldn’t decipher what it was. 

Time and time again, Jo had attempted to read the heart he guarded so fiercely. All she had found thus far was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. So, for the time being, she had decided to step back and let Henry come to her in his own time. The problem was that he didn’t seem keen on doing so.

*********************

_'Emily Hall', she said to her reflection, 'you are stunning.' Her pearly, thick-lashed eyes and tumbling golden ringlets caught in the candlelight, glimmering back at her boldly. Perfect. Tonight was the perfect night. A tragic story, charming music, a slight 'accidental' brush of her hand against his and the rest would play into her hands. The entire idea was beautifully crafted. Nothing - **nothing** \- could be better._

_Emily dragged herself away from the mirror, watching the operagoers with faint interest. Smugly, she noted that all of the other women were decidedly plainer than she. Her father, who had now caught sight of her, was waddling towards her rapidly, pushing through the crowd. **Oh dear.**_  
_Emily instinctively took a step backward, only to collide with something rather straight and stiff. Both Emily and the stranger were lurched in different directions, stumbling to gain a footing on the polished floor._  
_'I'm sorry,' she gasped. 'I beg your pardon.' Emily sheepishly looked up to meet the sufferer._  
_A pair of dark eyes met hers levelly back. 'Not at all.'_

_Emily blushed. The man's features were well-defined and sharp. He was handsome - any fool could see that. But the heat faded from Emily's cheeks when she noticed the haunted quality of his expression. She felt humbled, and suddenly very, very silly._

_'It's always a pleasure to hear a familiar tongue in a foreign country,' the stranger said kindly. He offered her his hand, and it was then that Emily noticed she was on the ground. Mortified, she leapt up and bowed her head._  
_'Emily Hall,' she said. 'I'm truly sorry. I-I wasn't looking ...'_  
_The man laughed. It was a strange, warm sound. 'Please don't trouble yourself, Miss Hall.'_

_He turned to leave, but Emily called out, 'Wait! I would regret not knowing your name - you didn't introduce yourself.'_  
_The stranger's lips parted, but not a sound he uttered. He seemed unsure of what to say. Then, appearing to collect himself, the man hesitatingly said, 'Morgan. Henry Morgan.'_


	3. Bullseye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night comes to a close - but not in a way Henry expects ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, back from the dead :) It's been a pretty busy time for me and it's only going to get busier, so I'm gifting you with this little chapter before I move on to something more substantial (so a longer chapter is coming ... one day ...).
> 
> Thanks for sticking around! Updates, for now, won't be weekly, so we'll see how we go.  
> For the time being, I hope this measly baby renews your interest ...

‘Let’s wrap this up,’ Hanson said, his bloodshot eyes looking to Henry appealingly. ‘For now, it’s suicide.’  
Henry made an indignant noise in the back of his throat. ‘It isn’t.’  
‘Look,’ said Jo in a strained tone, ‘we’ll talk to Baker’s family tomorrow, okay? We can make a verdict then. Unless you have irrefutable evidence that this is murder?’  
Henry opened his mouth, only to close it again. He couldn’t convince them. Not this way, at any rate. Silently, he turned away.

Hanson yawned and lifted his hand in a salute of farewell. ‘See you tomorrow, Jo. You too, Doc.’  
‘Yes,’ answered Henry distractedly.

 _Red blood blooming against a canvas of porcelain skin. A mistake. It was all a horrible, horrible mistake. Umber met pale blue in a sea of confusion._  
_Help me, she screamed. It was a noiseless scream – the type only he could hear._  
_And he could only watch in horror, tearing back his ultimate, brutal reply:_  
_I can’t._

‘Henry?’ The pressure of Jo’s hand on his shoulder jerked him awake. Henry recoiled, tugging away from her grip. Jo faltered. ‘Something wrong?’  
‘No – not at all,’ he muttered dismissively. Henry could tell she was hurt, and sheepishly, he looked away. He could feel Jo’s curious gaze burning on the nape of his neck.

‘I don’t doubt you,’ she said quietly. ‘You know something, right?’  
Henry sighed. ‘I can prove it’s murder. I just need more time.’  
Laughing, Jo said, ‘Sure – but not right now. You look like you could use some sleep.’  
Henry found himself grinning. ‘It’d have to be very, very long sleep.’  _Ironic, really._ He thanked Jo with a grateful nod. ‘You’re right. I should go home.’  
‘See you later, sleeping beauty.’

Her figure seemed to imprint itself in Henry’s mind. Jo Martinez, the strong, fearless brunette with eyes like daggers and a fragile casing on the fringes on her heart. Her smile lit up the pasty room like a star. At once, Henry felt both thankful and a deep ache of sadness. _I’m sorry_. The words danced in his mind, but he didn’t have a clue as to why they did.

He carried his frown into the elevator, pulling out the wad of letters slipped in his pocket. It was easy enough to take them unnoticed. Not so easy to summon the courage to read them. The case had shown to be far too familiar at the beginning, but the words scrawled on the face of the paper proved it to be so.

 _Emily_ , the letters hissed. _Emily. Remember?_

Why now? This case couldn’t be a coincidence. Henry had seen history mirror itself time and time again, but never like this. Somebody knew. Each detail of the scene lined up with precision. But why? Why go to all this trouble?

His mysterious caller, perhaps? Henry shivered the thought away dubiously. Back then was too obscure a time for anyone to focus on. He had kept to himself in Venice, hidden from the roving eyes of the world. _It has nothing to do with me_ , a voice in Henry's head repeated. _You’re too paranoid to see clearly, Henry Morgan._

The mantra grew softer each time it renewed. As if it was unsure. He couldn’t be unsure. Not at a time like this. Composing himself, Henry left the hotel purposefully. He couldn’t let something like this scare him.

The cool night air washed over his skin like water, murmuring throughout the city like an open sea. Cars rumbled indifferently in the distance, a vague thunder in an otherwise silent city. Henry tilted his head, letting his eyes travel up every layer of the hotel. A single, lit room stood out among all the rest, feverishly awake. The dead girl’s room.

There was a strange little pang as he thought of Jo: puzzled, staring at the space he had stood just moments before. An insistent little twitch prodded in the depths of Henry’s mind. It was almost foreign to him. He hadn’t felt it in a long time. It was a breath of fear. The type of fear he had felt amidst bullets, the dead and dying. A constant sort of nervousness - the tip of a blade that threatened to slice open all the compact secrets that festered inside him. Maybe all the secrets he harboured had rotted away with what little dignity he had left.

Henry began to wonder if he was hollow inside.

Exhaling heavily, he moved to leave. A shadowy figure in the distance caught his eye. The stranger was looking his way, silhouetted against a distant streetlight. Apprehensive, Henry cautiously walked in the opposite direction, fixing his interest on the pavement.

‘Morgan?’ called out the figure. It was a clear, deep voice. Unusual. The stranger approached Henry slowly. ‘You are Dr Henry Morgan, aren’t you?’  
‘That’s right,’ said Henry uneasily.  
‘Oh, good.’ There was a contemplative pause. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

A crack of a gunshot reverberated into the night. Henry shuddered at the noise. He had heard it too many times, yet he never failed to flinch at its sound. It penetrated every bone in his body. The gun fired again, then again.

Henry felt sluggish and sticky and slow.  
‘What—’ His words were murdered by guttural, hacking coughs. Dazedly, he realised that they were his own.  
It took him another second to realise something else.

He had been shot. He was flailing in a pool of his own blood.

*********************

_‘Oliver? Oliver, darling.’ Emily gently tugged on his cuff. Oliver turned, his eyes widening in surprise. Emily allowed her gaze to trace the contours of his jawline, then his lips, then his eyes. When she had first met him, she had fallen in love with Oliver’s eyes. They were a marbled green, a swirl of hazel and brown and flecked gold._

_Her admiration was cut short by Oliver’s taut hiss; ‘What are you doing here?’_  
_‘I wanted to see you.’_  
_‘Here? Now?’ He laughed condescendingly. ‘No, Emily. We could be seen, for God’s sake!’_  
_Emily’s heart deflated. She fought back an obtrusive tear. ‘Would it be that bad, darling? I thought–’_  
_‘In due time,’ Oliver interrupted in a softened tone. ‘Come – don’t cry. Didn’t you read my letter? I told you we’d meet later.’_  
_‘Why not here? I thought we were going to sit together. I thought we were going to tell papa.’_

_Oliver’s expression bordered on exasperation. A smile played on his lips, but not a happy one – it was the worn look a parent gave to their child. Emily didn’t like it when he treated her like a child, but she knew how critical this moment was, and she didn’t want to worsen his already tense mood._

_‘I want to meet alone,’ Oliver said to her. His eyes anxiously darted from person to person. Firmly, he drew Emily aside behind one of the low-hanging curtains. ‘I have something to tell you. You must promise to wait until then.’_  
_‘I have to tell you something as well,’ Emily replied eagerly. 'I was going to write, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer. I'm pregnant, Oliver.'_

_A pause._

_Nothing._

_He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look pleased. He didn’t look angry, either. Just … nothing._

_His heart, it seemed, was as empty as the smile he finally showed her._


End file.
